


i knew it when i met him (i loved him when i left him)

by ferda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, just guys being dudes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:25:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferda/pseuds/ferda
Summary: “Dude,” Charlie starts, leaning over the boards, “what the hell was that?”Whiter shifts back to make it easier for them to talk, because he’s cool like that, and Clayton leans forward to look back at him. “You want a warning next time?”





	i knew it when i met him (i loved him when i left him)

**Author's Note:**

> hey there ok i wrote this back in like august but i deleted it bc i hate this so much but im reposting it so that i can edit it and then replace all of it later. i just want to establish myself as the first person to write something in this tag so that no one can try and pretend that they invented this or something dumb like that. this is stragight garbage so dont read it. or do read it and then roast the shit out of august me for writing this and thinking it was good. ardy. thanks girlies. stay beautiful

April 14 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

Charlie spends most of U18 camp sorting his own shit out, but when everything’s settled and he takes a second to breathe in the locker room, his eyes always land on Clayton. He’s not even, like, a stand-out. In any field, really. He has some killer fucking eyebrows, but so does like everyone from St. Louis, and Kunzy’s are at least nine times more severe. Charlie won’t say it, but he thinks Luke would have a fivehead if it weren’t for how bushy his eyebrows are.

Anyways.

Kells is, objectively speaking, not the hottest guy on the roster. He’s relatively average looking, and a bit on the twinky side, if Charlie’s being honest. Which is not to say that he’s ugly. He’s just. Average. Which is why Charlie can’t figure out why he’s always sneaking glances, or why he can’t stop himself.

 

April 16, 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

What Clayton lacks in outstanding physique he makes up for in gorgeous fucking hockey. He’s fast, for starters, because when you’re 5’10 you have to be, and he’s got hands like magic. On top of that he’s solid, in a way most people his size aren’t. Charlie has to check him hard to get him to give up the puck during practice scrimmages, and even then, he finds a way to knock Charlie’s stick out of the way and steal it back. He can’t decide if he’s more impressed or annoyed. They get sent out on the ice together during games more often than not, and they’re so untouchable it’s almost unfair.

They drop their first, 3-1 against Russia, but Charlie can’t really find it in him to be worried. Not when he looks around the room and sees the set in everyone’s shoulders. Not when Clayton looks back at him with a glint in his eyes that says yes, of course.

 

April 22, 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

Clayton starts looking back at Charlie more often. He thinks so, at least. He hopes so.

 

April 26, 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

USA faces off against Canada for semis, and for some reason this is where the nerves kick in. They’re two games away from winning it all. The stakes are higher now. Realer. They beat Germany thirteen to fucking one a few days ago, so anything could happen after the puck drops.

“Let’s fucking go, boys,” Chucky yells over whatever mumbly rap song is playing over the speakers in the locker room. He’s met with cheers, and the trap music being turned up impossibly louder.

The first period is uneventful, but Kells opens the scoring two minutes into the second. His shot sails in, and before Charlie even has time to register the cheers, he skates over at full speed and then launches himself into the air, leaping onto to Charlie, who is completely unprepared. He goes to jump up and meet him a second too late, which makes his face connect with Clayton’s stomach, and then they’re both sprawling across the ice, limbs strewn wherever the fuck.

Being entirely smothered by someone else makes hearing a bit difficult, but Charlie can still hear Clayton whooping, and so he reaches up and tries to give him a little pat. They scramble to stand up but they manage to get on their feet and eventually skate back to the bench to watch the replay. It’s a hell of a goal, to say the very least, but when Charlie watches the celly he snorts.

“Dude,” Charlie starts, leaning over the boards, “what the hell was that?”

Whiter shifts back to make it easier for them to talk, because he’s cool like that, and Clayton leans forward to look back at him. “You want a warning next time?”

Charlie looks at him for a second - eyes intense, face flushed, hair curling out from under his helmet, still kind of breathing hard - and shrugs, tries to hide how hard he was gawking. “Score another like that and you can do whatever you want, man.”

Clayton laughs, clear and bright, and then Granato’s tapping him on the shoulder to go out for a change and he’s climbing over the boards. Charlie watches him go, and definitely does not think about the warm curl of satisfaction in the bottom of his stomach.

They end up beating the shit out of the Canadians, seven to two, and everyone goes nuts in the locker room when it’s all over. Someone - Fitz, from the sound of it - starts singing Party in the USA, and not a single person manages to keep a straight face when he tries to hit the high notes. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie sees Clayton throw his head back laughing. He swallows, hard, and ducks his head down to finish unlacing his skates.

 

April 26, 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

No one really expected otherwise, but they go all the way, and it’s the best moment of Charlie’s life to date. Whiter, bless his fucking heart, scores in OT, and Matts gets dubbed tourney MVP, because of course, and then they get wasted. The first bottles get opened at like, 9:30, and more keep coming without showing any signs of stopping in the near or distant future. Which is fine. They’re all legal here. Icing on the fucking cake.

Around 11:30 Charlie finds himself in a conversation with Terry, Bracco, and Fitz when Clayton stumbles over with new cans for all of them, and it would be rude not to accept. They’re all this side of sloshed, talking about how good it’ll be when they win it all over again for real in the U20 tourney when Uptown Funk comes on the speakers. Fitzy and Troy yell excitedly and go to dance, which is understandable because Uptown Funk is a fucking banger, and Bracco goes to get another drink, and leaves Charlie and Clayton alone to watch the commotion.

“What a fuckin’ tourney,” Clayton says after awhile, and Charlie laughs, takes a long swallow of his drink to avoid saying something stupid.

He means to say something, he swears he does, but he gets caught up in the way Clayton’s fingers wrap around his can of Sam Adams, the way his shirt settles over his collarbones, the way he’s staring back at Charlie in the same, definitively not buddies way that Charlie’s been looking at him since before the roster was even finalized.

“Do you. Um. Do you want to-” Charlie says, but doesn’t get very far.

“Yes,” Clayton cuts him off, sure and certain, so they finish off their drinks and head out.

They can’t go back to either of their rooms in case someone turns in early, so they make two rights and a left and then end up in some random closet in the hotel hallway, and Clayton's mouth is searing hot as he sucks a mark into the column of Charlie’s throat.

This not how Charlie expected his night to go, to say the very least.

"You- fuck, Kells," Charlie murmurs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he settles for one fitted around the cut of Clayton’s hip, and the other one he uses to reach up and tangle into his hair. Clayton hums a bit when he tugs. It tickles a bit, but not in a bad way.

“That tickles,” Charlie says.

“Christ, dude,” Clayton says into his neck, and Charlie makes a noise as his mouth moves over the bruise he can feel forming. He hopes it’s a quiet noise, but whatever. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck off, dick,” is the genius response Charlie gives him, but then he gets his thigh up between Clayton’s legs, and they don’t talk much after that.

 

April 27, 2015 ; Lucerne, SUI

Everyone gives Charlie a wide berth at the airport, which is nice, because he’s super fucking hungover. Also because he isn’t emotionally ready to be up 45,000 feet up in the air, and he’s kind of being a dick about it. He sat alone, popped two benadryls, and passed the fuck out on the way there, and figures that this is just what he’ll do on his way back. That is, until Clayton sits down next to him and promptly starts sorting through his backpack. He holds up two mini bags of pretzels after a minute.

“Do you want pretzels,” he says. It should be a question but it falls flat. Charlie doesn’t comment on it. They all drank a lot last night, and Clayton is built like a twelve year old, so.

“I’m good, thanks,” he replies, and Clayton nods as he opens one of the bags and starts eating.

The plane eventually lurches towards the runway, and Charlie screws his eyes closed, doesn’t open them. He didn’t slide the cover over the window before Clayton sat down, and he doesn’t want to be rude and close it if he’s looking outside.

Take-off goes as smoothly as it can for someone deathly afraid of being more than four stories off the ground, and then they’re in the air, and Charlie can’t stop white-knuckling his armrests. Ten minutes in he still hasn’t opened his eyes, but Clayton keeps bumping him with his elbow, which is not something Charlie signed up for.

“Kells. Can you, like n-” he starts, but Clayton cuts him off, which is starting to seem like it’s a just thing he tends to do.

“Dude. Look at that fucking cloud,” Clayton whispers, because even if he’s being a dick he’s  
nice enough to not wake any of their teammates up.

Charlie wants to scream. “Oh my fucking God. Why?” He asks, and Clayton looks back at him like it’s obvious.

“Because it looks like an eyebrow. Look,” he says, pointing at a cloud, and if Charlie takes a second to stare at the curve of his hand then that is absolutely no one’s business but his. He does eventually assess the cloud in question, and it most definitely does not look like a fucking eyebrow.

“Are you serious?” Charlie whispers back, harshly, and then squints at the cloud for a second. “Why did you go with eyebrow? It looks like a snake.”

Clayton scoffs quietly, but then Charlie points out a cloud that looks like a dinosaur that Clayton is convinced is the spitting image of the Mona Lisa, and the cycle starts all over again. They go on like this for ages, until they’re closer to America than they are Switzerland, and Charlie’s relaxed enough to let go of his armrest and punch Clayton in the shoulder.

 

May 13, 2015 ; Ann Arbor, MI

They don’t stop boning when they get back. Charlie is personally a huge fan of this, because when the only two options are to either continue having good sex or not continue having good sex, you obviously go with the former. It’s a convenient set-up made easier by the fact that that they literally never talk about it.

It’s probably better this way, but Charlie can’t stop thinking about like, holding hands, and sharing a bed for more than just five minutes, and Clayton not sneaking out as soon as he wakes up in the morning.

 

January 4, 2016 ; Boston, MA

Charlie wakes up and is pleasantly surprised to see that his snapstreak with Clayton is 250 days long. He texts him about it at breakfast, and snorts when Clayton immediately texts him back to say why are u texting me to tell me this at 7 in the fucking morning u dick.

“Who’s the lucky girl that has you smiling at this ungodly hour, Chaz?” Gryz asks as he slides into the seat across from Charlie, and steals his apple off of his plate.

“No one,” Charlie replies, laughing a little. He shoots Clayton a quick response and then stands up to get another apple. “There aren’t any ladies in my life right now.”

 

May 29, 2016 ; Buffalo, NY

Charlie sees Clayton for the first time in nearly a year at the combine. They’re chilling in Charlie’s hotel room, half watching a golf tournament Clayton spent almost three minutes looking for while both of them dick around on their phones. Clayton is sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed because he needs to be closer to the outlet on the wall so he can charge his phone. Charlie doesn’t say anything about the outlets built into the lamps on the nightstand - which literally every hotel has, by the fucking way - because Clayton is a college boy now, and he should be able to figure these things out for himself. And also because there’s something weirdly endearing about the way his hair sticks up in the back.

Aside from the low murmur of the TV, it’s quiet, but not in a bad way. It’s homey. Domestic, even, but Clayton twists to look at him after a bit.

“So,” He says. “how was BU?”

To Clayton’s credit it’s a good question; at the very least it’s a pleasant conversation starter. But instead of answering right away, Charlie takes a moment to really look at him and take inventory of all the ways he’s changed since they’ve been apart. There aren’t any glaring differences between the Clayton that Charlie remembers from NTDP and the Clayton sitting on the floor in front of him, but he does looks older, and a lot less wiry. He’s probably doomed to always be a bit baby-faced, but a lot of his chub is gone. He cut his hair, and he’s got the beginnings of a tan going, a few very faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. Charlie wants to die a little bit when he notices them, but in a good way. He’s slowly discovering that most aspects of Clayton make him feel like this.

“Cool. BU is a hell of a lot different from Pioneer though, and the hockey’s a lot more intense, I guess.” Charlie responds, and tries to stop staring at his fucking freckles. “How was NTDP this year?”

“Cool. We did pretty well up in Nodak. Totally fucked Canada to win bronze.”

“Nice,” Charlie says, and legitimately tries to look him in the eye. It’s hard when Clayton’s like, looking up at him through the fan of his eyelashes, but it’s either that or the freckles, which obviously wasn’t working, so.

There’s another pause as Clayton checks his phone and responds to a snapchat from Matty. The picture he send back only shows, like, his ear, which is funny because when Clayton sends Charlie snaps they’re always of his whole face. He clicks his phone off, and looks back up at Charlie.

“So, do you want a blowjob?” He asks, and Charlie pulls him onto the bed without another word.

 

June 24, 2016 ; Buffalo, NY

Boston. Bet.

 

October 1, 2016 ; Boston, MA

BU’s first preseason game is at home against Prince Edward Island. The Panthers and their losing record aren’t anything to sweat over, especially when it doesn’t count towards the standings, but Charlie remembers how nervous he was to play Acadia last year in his own debut, and Agganis wasn't nearly as crowded then.

He asks Clayton if he’s nervous before they go out on the ice for warmies, because Charlie is a naturally very nice and comforting person, and also because Charlie is trying to get as many paw prints as he can on his helmet by the end of the season. Clayton just stares back blankly when he asks.

"Should I be?" Is the response Charlie gets from him, along with an absolutely filthy goal barely ten minutes into the first period, because of course he'd go the extra mile prove his own point.

His second of the night comes during the second period, off of a pass from Charlie. It's one of those plays where as soon as the puck leaves Charlie's stick he makes his way over to Clayton because he knows he'll score. They're the only ones cellying for a second, so they make it intimate by screaming in each other’s faces as the band plays the fight song as loud as humanly possible.

"What a fuckin' pass, Mac, fuck yes," Clayton yells, only an inch or so away from his face. His eyes are lit up the way they always are when he's playing, but Charlie still feels like this is something he needs to cherish because he's that fucking whipped.

In the third period, Clayton scores a power play goal to complete the hat trick. He walks in all alone and scores unassisted, and Charlie’s fairly certain that he cheers the loudest out of anyone on the bench.

After the game, Clayton chatters in Charlie’s ear all the way back to his dorm, and doesn’t shut the fuck up until Charlie gets a hand on his dick. Even then, Clayton has to bite down on the curve of Charlie’s shoulder to stay quiet.

 

December 13, 2016 ; Boston, MA

Things are going well; BU is winning games more often than not, and the roster for World Juniors isn’t even close to being finalized but it’s already looking good. Which is relieving, because the US shat the bed at the World Cup of Hockey this year. If it takes a bunch of college kids to redeem USA hockey, then so be it. It’s happened before. Disney made a movie out of it.

This is what he thinks about as he gets back into his game day suit for the postgame presser. They beat Yale at home, 5-3, and he opened up the scoring in the first, which is clutch as hell. The mood in the locker room is light, but it’s a Tuesday and Charlie has a 9 am tomorrow morning, so he’d rather go straight back to his dorm and pass out than deal with reporters. But responsibility is responsibility, so Quinny hands him a water bottle, and he heads out of the locker room, and is completely caught off guard when he sees Clayton sitting at the table instead of JFK, who he thought was gonna be there.

The thing about Charlie’s suit is that it’s the standard black and white, so he can get away with wearing it constantly if he spices it up with a different tie. Clayton, on the other hand, literally only has his suit from the draft, which is navy blue and features a bright pink dress shirt, so it’s super easy to call him out on only having the one. To make it worse for him, pink doesn’t go with, like, anything, especially not the huge, bright red beanie he’s wearing that threatens to swallow him whole. He makes it work, somehow, because if anyone could take two colors and will them into matching it’s Clayton fucking Keller.

When Charlie sits down next to him, he can see Clayton scrolling through Twitter. He looks over at Charlie, smiles at him a bit from underneath his stupid fucking beanie, and- oh.

Oh.

There’s a sound in Charlie’s ears like wind roaring as he flashes a strained smile back at Clayton, quick and perfunctory.

Charlie has a tight grip on the water bottle in his hand, and wills the cold seeping into his palm to steel him enough to not embarrass himself in front of the reporters and then dip as fast as humanly possible. He needs to go back to his dorm, and sleep, and ignore the very major crisis he’s having.

He always knew he was whipped for Clayton, but this is. Decidedly a bit more than being whipped, which. Cool.

 

December 14, 2016 ; Boston, MA

Charlie sleeps like shit, and is exhausted during his 9 am.

 

December 25, 2016 ; Montreal, CAN

Charlie is rooming with Colin for World Juniors, and it’s only the first night but he’s already breaking curfew. Great leader, this kid.

“Thanks for covering for me, man,” Whiter says when he comes in, and Charlie nods as he tries to decide if he thinks Colin is stoned or if his voice is always just this slow and stupid sounding. “Joe sexiled Fitz, and he needed company.”

Charlie snorts. “We’ve been here less than a day and he’s already wheeling? Christ.”

Colin shrugs, one shouldered, because he’s the kind of guy who firmly believes in conserving energy by doing the bare minimum of everything at all times. Or maybe it’s because he’s baked. Charlie still can’t tell. “Dunno. He got a perfect score on his ACT when he was 16, so maybe he’s smart enough to have outwitted the system.” Charlie hums noncommittally. Colin’s being his usual weird self, but he does have a point. If anyone on the team can outsmart Tinder itself, it’s Joe.

“I just-” Colin starts, voice strained as he tries to unhook his sweatpants off of his ankles, “-think it’s impressive that Joe’s getting his dick wet at all when he and Oetter are like, attached at the hip,” Colin flails a bit as he moves to sit on the foot his bed and kick his sweats all the way off, and Charlie chokes a little. It’s common knowledge - among the Terriers, at least - that Joe and Jake are like, definitely a thing. It’s hard to miss, especially here. They’re always together, and when they aren’t, they’re texting each other. Or snapchatting each other. Or tagging each other in memes on instagram. Or something else grossly domestic. “Or maybe- oh shit. Mac. Maybe Joe sexiled Casey to hook up with Oetter.”

Charlie pauses for a long fucking second as he scrambles for something to say.

“Nah, dude,” is what he settles on, and prays that Colin is actually high right now so that he doesn’t notice how blatant the lie is.

Colin laughs, shakes his head. Charlie breathes a sigh of relief, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Speaking of people fucking, dude,” Colin says, but it’s muffled as he pulls his sweatshirt off and gets that stuck on one of his ears too, Jesus fucking Christ, “anyone special in your life? Suitors, perhaps? A lover you’ve been secretly pining over for years that you haven’t told me about yet?”

Charlie’s mind jumps straight to Clayton - whose hair is starting to move from shaggy to being a full on mullet, who always sits next to Charlie at team meals so that both of them can pretend that he’s being stealthy when he steals food off of Charlie’s plate, who calls Charlie babe but only when it’s too dark to see his mouth form the words, who leaves bruises that stay longer than Clayton himself ever does - and shrugs, refreshes Instagram, hopes that the look on his face doesn’t betray anything.

“Nah, dude,” he says again. The words taste bitter in his mouth.

 

January 5, 2017; Montreal, CAN

Bob Motzko is a smart fucking dude, because he picks his captains based not only on skill, but also on who the team has the most respect for. Charlie, objectively speaking, knows this, but sometimes he forgets about the second part when he gets caught up in the whirlwind of the tournament. Other times, it stares him in the face.

Like now, for example, when they’re tied at two going into the third. No one is talking, because there isn’t much to say that feels like it would be appropriate. The quiet intensity in the room is palpable, almost overwhelming, and Charlie is reminded of the luxury car magazines his uncle used to give him for Christmas when he was younger.

He thinks of horsepower; of raw, unbridled energy stowed away in an engine that can only do its best to keep up, resplendent and striking in the way only powerful things are. He thinks of the sharp tang of sweat he’s come to know so well, of the pure determination it took them all to get here, of the clean sheet of ice that stands waiting for them outside the locker room doors.

Charlie looks around the room at the 22 other boys he is so, so proud to call his family, and opens his mouth to speak.

“Twenty minutes for the rest of our lives, boys,” he says, and ducks his head down to wipe the sweat off of his face with a towel so that he doesn’t accidentally make it weird by locking eyes with anyone. “C’mon.”

He’s met with cheers from the rest of the guys, and the tension in the room being turned from muted, frenzied panic to something much sharper. It’s a heady feeling, one Charlie isn’t sure he can name, but it follows them out of the locker room and onto the ice, and stays out there with them until Troy Terry goes five hole on Carter Hart, and Tyler Parsons blocks the shot of the next Canadian that gets sent out, and every last person on the American bench skates off the ice and into the locker room with a gold medal hanging around their neck.

 

January 6th, 2017 ; Montreal, CAN

Late night bleeds into early morning in the weird, melty way it does when you’re drunk, and Charlie hasn’t stopped kissing Clayton for what feels like hours.

“Can you fucking believe,” Clayton murmurs against Charlie’s mouth, “that this is real? That it happened?”

“God, no,” Charlie says, and only slurs a little bit. “I can’t, like- this is is so, I mean. Wow.” Charlie knows he sounds like an idiot, but he’s wasted, and happy, and so full of love he feels like he’s going to burst. Clayton slots his face into the crook of Charlie’s neck and laughs for a second. His hair tickles Charlie’s nose when he tilts his face to breathe in the familiar scent of his shampoo, now muted by the faint smell of beer.

“God, I love you,” Charlie says, and he’s  
overwhelmed with it until he realizes what the fuck he just said, and then that overwhelms him a hell of a lot more.

Clayton is a stiff line, pressed up against Charlie, and while his breath was tickling Charlie’s ear a second ago, Charlie hasn’t felt him inhale or exhale since he opened his dumb fucking mouth.

“And I love this team,” Charlie continues on, rushing to cover up his tracks, “and I love tonight, and I love this entire tournament. I really, like, can’t believe this is all real.”

Clayton doesn’t speak for a long moment, and Charlie prays to whatever will listen that the two of them aren’t close enough for Clayton to feel how hard his heart is pounding. Clayton finally, finally, moves to step back a bit and look at Charlie. The tight, twisted look on his face is one he doesn’t recognize.

“Me too, Mac,” He says, and Charlie has never felt so off-kilter in his life.

 

January 13, 2017 ; Boston, MA

A bunch of shit is happening right now.

For starters, Charlie came home from World Juniors confident enough to go up to Quinny and straight up request that he get an A, which is quite literally the ballsiest thing Charlie’s ever done. Then there’s the fact that he has a huge test in Ab Psych next week and he totally hasn’t studied, so he’s freaking out. Also, he and Clayton aren’t talking.

 

January 27, 2017 ; Boston, MA

Quinny said he’d think about the whole alternate captain situation when Charlie brought it up a few weeks ago, and when he said that Charlie took it as meaning possibly not probably. But Nik fucks his leg up and has to put the rest of his season on the shelf, and so the next time BU plays at home, Charlie has a letter stitched over his chest, making this literally the wildest January that Charlie has ever lived through.

They end up beating Lowell 4-2, which is a nice start to kick off his stint as an alternate, and Charlie gets the nod to handle the postgame press. It’s pretty standard, but after it’s all wrapped up, Charlie goes to grab his stuff and head out and sees Clayton sitting in his cubby, tapping away at his phone. He’s so deep in concentration that he doesn’t notice Charlie come in. Charlie’s best guess is that he’s playing 2048. Charlie heard him talking to Fabbs at lunch about how he’s trying to break his high score, which is actually Charlie’s, not his.

Charlie takes a second to be proud of how elite his 2048 skills are before he clears his throat, and Clayton snaps his head up to look up at him. His face says ‘Wow, I’m completely shocked that you’re here right now’, but his eyes say ‘I’m actually super not surprised at all’, and right away Charlie knows that this is going to be the most uncomfortable interaction he’s ever been apart of.

“Oh, you’re still here? Funny,” Clayton says, and Charlie tries not to snort at how his voice is like, three octaves higher than usual. “Glad I bumped into you.”

“Yeah. I’m still here.” There’s a pause as both of them stare at everything in the room but each other. “Did you need something?” Clayton looks caught off guard again, and Charlie has no clue why, because he’s the one who literally sat in Charlie’s cubby while he waited for him.

Clayton pockets his phone and stands up. He doesn’t break eye contact at all while he does it, and Charlie has to admit it’s a total fucking baller move. “Yeah, actually, I wanted to talk to you. About how we’re, um. About how we aren’t talking.”

Charlie’s was kind of expecting him to say it, but that doesn’t change how it feels like the whole room tilts a bit while he tries to think of how to respond. The last time they talked, Charlie told him he loved him. He doesn’t know where they stand now.

“Alright, yeah,” he says, and lets a big, whooshing breath out. “Before you say anything, I just-” he starts, and doesn’t get to finish, because Clayton is right in front of him, tilting Charlie’s face down, slotting their mouths together, and God, Charlie wonders how he managed without this for as long as he did.

But then he remembers that Clayton never even dares to let their hands brush together if they’re in public, and that he never fucking stays. That he hasn’t, doesn’t, won’t ever love Charlie back. He suddenly feels bruised all over, and tired, and so, so profoundly sad.

He steps back, and tries to ignore how sweet Clayton looks with his eyes still closed, trying to chase the kiss until there’s too much space in between them. “I can’t keep doing this with you,” He murmurs, softly, and finds the strength somewhere in himself to look Clayton in the eye. His words get swallowed up by the silence in the room, and Charlie can practically see Clayton thinking.

“I- okay. Just. Listen for a second,” Clayton says, and fine, Charlie can do that. “You know how in movies, there’s always, like, the duo. There’s the main character and the best friend, and they’re inseperable, and everything between them is like, perfect.” He says, and Charlie, already wary, nods. He doesn’t like where this is going. Clayton continues on.

“You and I, we’re just like that. We’ve always been that, you know? We’re the duo, we’re the-” he says, or at least tries to, but Charlie is the one who’s cutting Clayton off for once.

“No, the fuck we aren’t,” he bites out, and the weight of his words land heavily in the space in between them. He was tired before, but all he feels right now is angry. “We aren’t a fucking buddy cop movie. We aren’t the perfect best friends, and this isn’t a fucking neatly spliced two and a half hour long film, or whatever it is you want this to be. This is real fucking life. I’m a person, not a fucking movie character. I’m not the sidekick to your protagonist, and I can’t sit here and let you just fucking carry on like this isn’t painful for me. Jesus Christ, Clayton, I can’t keep doing this with you.” Charlie repeats what he said earlier, but now his hands are kind of shaking, and he feels like someone opened him up and scrubbed him raw.

Clayton is small to begin with, but he’s all shuttered in and compact by the time Charlie’s done talking, and it’s disorienting to see him shrink in on himself when he usually does his best to take up as much space in a room as possible. His face doesn’t betray anything, but Charlie knows better than to look at his expression if he wants to get any sort of a read on him. His eyes are sharp, kind of stony, and Charlie hates that knowing Clayton well enough to understand him on this level feels like cheating.

Looking at him makes Charlie hurt, in a weird, breathless kind of way, and suddenly he needs to be gone, far away from this conversation and far away from Clayton before he says something else stupid. Charlie pushes past him to get his stuff out of his cubby and storms out of the room, wishing that there was like, a door he could slam, or something.

 

February 6, 2017 ; Boston, MA

The thing about Charlie and Clayton is that they have ridiculous chemistry. They’ve been lighting it up all season, and it goes unspoken that even though they’re in their weird limbo right now, they’re not gonna jeopardize the team. Their new-and-improved dynamic is now just them refusing to ever look at each other, but then stepping onto the ice and continuing to always be a step and a half ahead of the other team.

Right now, they’re on the PK, holding onto a 2-1 lead in the middle of the second, and BC is playing like they’re certain they’re gonna score. Which is to say that they totally aren’t backchecking, and that makes life a hell of a lot easier.

Greener gets Charlie the puck so that he can take it out of their zone, and Clayton’s right there with him. They both have marks on them, but Clayton slips out from in between the two BC defensemen, and Charlie passes to him through the tiny gap of space they leave.

There’s been a constant rumble in the Garden throughout the entire game, but it turns into a dull roar as Clayton skates in all alone, and then full on screams as he goes backhand five hole to put BU up 3-1. Charlie is the last one to reach the celly, and even though Clayton is sandwiched between Greener and DSom, he steps out from in between the two of them to beam at Charlie like he hung the moon and pull him into the celly so that they can all hug it out before they skate back to the bench. They get to watch the goal replay on a jumbotron, which is zesty and exciting, and when the screen shows Charlie thread the needle, Clayton reaches over and fistbumps him, still smiling.

Charlie absolutely fucking hates their new-and-improved dynamic, but at least it lets him love Clayton in snippets instead of leaving him with nothing.

 

February 11, 2017 ; Boston, MA

Charlie and Clayton haven’t broken their snapstreak throughout all of this, which like, thank God, because it’s almost two whole years old. But now whenever Clayton sends Charlie snapchats, they’re always blurry, and only ever of one of his ears.

 

February 15, 2017 ; Boston, MA

They lose the Beanpot to Harvard. Everyone gets shitfaced with zero regard to the fact that it’s a Monday, and Charlie wakes up the next day with a fat fucking hangover.

His day only gets worse from then on out. Practice goes poorly the way it always does after a huge and very disappointing loss, everything being in the caf is gross which means he’ll have to spend real life money on food, and he has a breakout session with his stat group at 11:15. Stat always ruins his good mood for the rest of the day, and Charlie isn’t even in a good mood right now to begin with.

Charlie is walking down Newbury on his way to Trident to get a bagel when his phone buzzes with a text from Clayton, which, what the fuck.

are u busy rn, is all it says, and no he isn’t, but even if he was he’d find a way out of it.

No whats up he texts back, and immediately sees the grey bubble pop up at the bottom of their conversation.

come over, and then a second later, ?. Charlie promptly turns around and heads back to campus.

He gets to Clayton’s dorm and only has to knock once before the door swings open and Clayton invites him inside. It’s surprisingly clean, except that when Charlie walks in he has to put effort into not grimacing at how strongly the room reeks of weed, but that’s just college.

“Hi,” Clayton says. He moves to sit down on his bed, which leaves Charlie utterly vulnerable, because he doesn’t know if he should sit down next to him or if that would be weird for him to do, considering their situation. He settles the desk chair across from the bed. “So, we should talk.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Charlie says, and grips his phone tighter in his hand to try and stop his fingers from trembling. He nods at Clayton to start, because the ball’s in his court.

“Okay. Um,” Clayton begins slowly, like he’s picking his words very, very carefully. Charlie takes comfort in how nervous he is, too. “I tried to make a point to you a few weeks ago. After Lowell. And it- went the way that it did.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says drily. Clayton shoots him a look, and he shuts up.

“Anyways, so that happened, and it was bad. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we’ve been walking circles around each other for weeks, and I’m sorry I fucked up something really good, and I’m sorry that it took me until now to grow a pair and say it.” Everything he’s saying makes Charlie’s heart twist. He opens his mouth, but Clayton continues on before he has a chance to interject. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been in love with you since, like, the first time we played a shift together, and you deserve better than what you got from me for the past two years. And you might hate me, but I don’t hate you, and I’m sorry.” Clayton finishes, punctuates his words with a little shrug.

Charlie blinks once, twice.

“Are you fucking with me?” He asks, because what the hell is his life right now.

It’s Clayton’s turn to blink back at him. “Uh, no?” He says. It’s phrased like a statement but his voice swings up at the end, so it doesn’t sound very definitive. It’s enough for Charlie.

“I’m literally fucking- like, I mean, shit. Give me a second.” He takes a moment to collect himself, because Jesus fucking Christ. “Clayton, I don’t know how to make it any more obvious, but there is literally nothing that could happen- there’s nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. The AC is whirring quietly, and it’s the only sound in the room.

“We’re so fucking stupid,” Charlie says, and then they’re both standing up to close the space between them, and falling onto the bed, and they’re pressed so close Charlie can’t tell where he stops and Clayton begins, and he’s missed this so much he could cry.

 

March 7, 2017 ; Boston MA

There is no bigger L, Charlie thinks, than having to wake up before seven.

It’s 5:45 in the morning, and Charlie has been up for at least half an hour, but Clayton won’t stop fucking whining about how cold it is outside, and Charlie wants to die.

“You could at least tell me why we’re walking down Comm Ave at five in the fucking morning, Charles,” Clayton mutters, and Charlie swears to God.

“I’ve told you five hundred times already that it’s a surprise. Shut up.” Charlie leaves out the please, I’m begging you, but it is heavily implied.

“I’ll shut up when I freeze my whole entire ass off,” Clayton snaps. They continue on like that until they reach Agganis, and Charlie pulls the set of keys Quinny gave him out of his sweatshirt pocket.

“Dude, why the fuck are we here?” Clayton asks, and Charlie isn’t sure, but it looks like he’s vibrating a little bit underneath his beanie.

“We’re here,” the doors click open and Charlie pockets the key, “because Quinny thinks I’m up practicing one timers.”

Clayton gives him a look. “But you’re not.”

Charlie nods. “I’m not. But we have the place all to ourselves until seven.” Clayton grins, and follows him inside when he opens the door.

Charlie isn’t used to Agganis being so quiet. He stops on the face-off dot and can’t stop looking around at all of the empty seats. Clayton is skating slow laps around the d-zone in front of where the Dog Pound is, and he’s wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants that are almost the same color grey but not quite, which he’s paired with his huge, stupid, bright red beanie, and Charlie can’t stop smiling at him.

“What are you looking at?” Clayton asks him. His face is still flushed from the cold outside. Charlie can see the pink on his cheeks even as he stands at center ice.

“Nothing,” he replies. “You, I guess.”

Clayton laughs, and the sounds echoes off of the glass. “C’mere,” he says, and who is Charlie to say no?

 

March 26, 2017, Grand Forks, ND

Nodak scores four minutes into OT, and it takes the referees seven fucking years to call the goal off. Charlie watches them discuss it and knows they will, because no one with a brain reviews a goal for that long and then confirms it to be good. The Nodak crowd goes nuts when the call gets made, but no one pays them any attention when there are more important things to worry about. Like how BU’s season has just been resurrected, how they can’t waste this chance.

Both teams battle hard for the next 16 minutes, but nothing happens, and everyone skates off of the ice to wait for the second OT period. Quinny gives them another one of his speeches in the locker room, about dedication and drive and playing hard and all of the same old bullshit, and everyone ignores the very slight edge in his voice. No one can blame him for being anxious.

Half way through the period BU is setting up their formation in the offensive zone and Clayton has the puck in the lower left corner. He’s dancing around his mark, skating easy circles around him, and it’s moments like this where Charlie is reminded that the he fell in love with Clayton’s hockey before he knew to love anything else about him. Clayton fakes out the guy on him and breaks away to skate further in and make a pass. Charlie calls for it, moving to slot in between the two face-off circles.

Charlie is asking him to make a crazy pass, made even more improbable by the ridiculous angle the two of them are at in relation to each other. Clayton would have like, twist his whole body around to pull it off. If it was anyone else there’s no way in hell they’d be able to do it. But it’s Clayton, it’s Charlie and Clayton. They’ve known for awhile that they can do anything.

Clayton makes the pass, because of course he does. Tapping the puck in is as easy as breathing.

As soon as he sees it hit the back of the net, Charlie skates full tilt towards Clayton, and everyone is screaming like someone just got fucking merked right in front of the whole entire crowd, and actually North Dakota just did, so there.

Charlie does this thing sometimes, usually when he’s playing hockey, where the world kind of slows down and everything goes quiet, and all he knows is the ice under his skates and the puck on his stick and exactly where he needs to go to make a play happen. Right now, he’s zeroed in on Clayton. He sees him he flings his stick somewhere behind him, and that he’s getting ready to leap onto Charlie as soon as he’s close enough like he did years ago during the U18 tournament against Canada, when they were a little bit younger and a lot more naive and neither of them knew what the future held.

This time, when they reach each other, Charlie’s ready for it.

They jump up high to get to each other, and they go down hard. Charlie lands on his back, Clayton lands on top of him, and they can’t stop clutching at each other, can’t stop screaming. Clayton has his fingers wrapped around Charlie’s helmet, and he’s shaking his head back and forth as he shouts unintelligibly.

Charlie’s laughing, and he’s crying, and he’s in love, he’s in love, he’s so in love it hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> August 29, 2013 ; Long Beach, NY
> 
> Always a stickler for routine, Charlie wakes up and checks twitter. The first thing he sees is that someone - Clayton Keller, apparently - committed to BU like Charlie did, like, two weeks ago. Upon further inspection he sees that his handle is @MrTopCheese87.
> 
> He thinks it safe to assume that this guy is a fucking baller.


End file.
